


Nothing's In Our Way

by Phia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, High School, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Swearing, Teenlock, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phia/pseuds/Phia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's got John in his therapist's parking lot, in Mary's rushed and angry words, at his table in the canteen. But never with him at his mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing's In Our Way

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm supposed to be finishing Panic and Sunset, but the thought of working on those right now sickens me.
> 
> The thing about John's eyes being grey comes from this Martin picture I saw. Also Mary's hair is brown because of the leaked S4 photos.
> 
> Enjoy, maybe.
> 
> Note: The ED is mentioned very briefly and there is nothing graphic.

He's all charred at the edges and he feels grey on the outside, his insides slowly dimming as they get closer to his heart, which beats out inky black blood all into him. He's supposed to say he's okay, though, so he paints on a smile with a soft-bristled brush, pastel pink at its end. He laughs and smiles and clasps his hands together to hide his bleeding mouth.

"How did it go today?" John asks as he leads him out of the lobby to his parked car in front.

"Fine." He counts black crows above him, five suspended above the pavement in their orbital circle. John manages a jerky nod and climbs into the car. He doesn't even bother to hold Sherlock's door open for him anymore, which shouldn't bother him as much as it does.

They drive in silence, which is okay because he doesn't have to say anything. 

* * *

 

Mary's got him pressed against the wall outside the boy's bathroom, his muscles tightly clenched against the white blocks. She's laughing at his face, her brown hair settling around her own face each time she jerks her head with a shout.

"He doesn't want a fucking psychopath. He never wanted one. He'll come to his senses, one day, and realize that he doesn't need this shit. He doesn't need you." Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes only because the minty smell of her breath is clouding his senses. It's too strong, like Mary's grip across his shoulders. This all reads off like a bad movie, anyway, and he's tired of being John's antagonist.

"Okay," he says. He nods, a little like John's silent ones.

" _What_?" Mary hisses, a little in surprise. She laughs again and tightens her grip. Sherlock knows he could pull her off, he just doesn't want to ruin his already shaky reputation.

"You're right about John, you're right about everything." He gives her a timid yet fake smile. Mary huffs, the cold of winter from her peppermints brushing the hairs in his nose.

"You're just agreeing with me so you can get me off." She leans more of her weight into his body, pressuring his bones. Sherlock is tampering down on that inner call to push her off onto the linoleum.

"No. You can tell, out of all people. You know, Mary." It is some sort of twisted flattery. She nods and pulls off of him, sending him back into the wall, her smile disappearing as she walks away.

All Mary wants to do is break him. Neither are sure if she will ever be successful.

* * *

 

The therapist sticks to a routine. She asks the same round of questions that centre around Sherlock, school, and John. Her wiggly smile when he seats himself this appointment in her jade cushioned chair lets him know which one she will be focusing on this time.

She never bothers with greetings or departing sentences, and neither does he. At least he can respect her for that.

"Let's talk about John," she says. Her black fountain pen taps against the yellow notepad she rests on her lap. Today she is wearing a canary yellow blouse that caps her shoulders, with a familiar black skirt stretched tight across her legs, and her frizzy red hair is pulled back into a bun.

"Okay," he answers to what wasn't a question. He knows better than to remain silent, wasting John's gas, Mycroft's money, and his own time.

"What is John to you?" Dr. Clarke begins. Sherlock places his arms on the wooden rests of the chair.

"John is my boyfriend of two years," Sherlock answers, appreciating the fact that she hasn't begun writing yet. Dr. Clarke doesn't believe in using too much paper.

"And how did you two meet?"

"We were lab partners." He could go into details of John's first sunny smile towards him, chapped lips turning upward, his grey eyes brightening like light reaching inward into an opened cave, settling upon the stone. But he doesn't really need to.

"How did the lab go?" Clarke knows Sherlock is interested in the sciences.

Sherlock gives off an airy laugh. The topic of John always makes him happier. "We failed. I went over to his house to finish it. We stayed up all night talking and doing nothing, and we fell asleep right before class, still at his house. We never turned it in, even though we finished it."

Dr. Clarke chuckles lowly. John makes her happy, too. John makes everyone happy.

* * *

 

Sherlock hasn't talked to John in four days, after John dropped him off at his home from the therapist's. He loves that John doesn't mind the silence. He hates that John doesn't prod him to talk anymore.

"My therapist asked about you." John pops his head up from where he is hunched over his sandwich, staring blankly at the bread. The rest of the canteen is buzzing with noise. Wednesday's rain is tapping on the clouded windows.

"Hmm?" This is John's way of asking for more information.

"She wanted to know how we met, things like that. It was interesting."

John's eyes soften. " _You're_ interesting," the rugby player says. "Now, come on, eat your half of the sandwich."

* * *

 

 

It's two years ago, and Sherlock is cutting through the woods. He can't run fast enough, it seems. He never can. Trees mimic his pursuers, reaching out with spindly branches to grip at the fabric of his too-baggy clothes. He finally makes it back home, just across the road behind the clearing. He swings open the rickety white door in the back that's already open and bolts up the carpeted staircase to his room.

Sherlock sits on the edge of his bed with the blue plaid sheets. His hand is on his chest, he is bent and panting. Victor is already standing next to his floor-length mirror with his arms crossed, leaning against Sherlock's light blue wall.

Sherlock unbuttons his shirt once he finishes catching his breath. He pulls the undershirt over his head and places the articles side by side before walking over to the mirror. He sees, more than feels, Victor looping a clothed arm around his waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. They stare at Sherlock's ribs and flat stomach together. His skin is sickly pale in the light streaming through the blinds and he feels weak as he rests back into Victor's leather jacket.

"Good," Victor praises, pressing his lips against Sherlock's neck. "I always liked you skinny."

It is two years later and John is smiling at him as he walks across the parking lot. Steady, unwavering John in his team jersey, marking him a red pushpin against the grey sky that is London's corkboard.

"How did it go today?" John murmurs as Sherlock reaches him. His blonde eyelashes are full around the graveyard gloom that his eyes are.

Sherlock always finds more comfort in death than in life. He doesn't know life except when he is with John, when he isn't pressured and spoken to, only spoken with, and he strays away from mirrors.

John doesn't wear leather. Sherlock has never felt it against the soft skin pulled tight across his stomach.

"Fine." He remembers. He can't forget. He will never forget that feeling of standing in front of that glass but he will never forget the smile John gives him just before he hits sleep.

"You seem different," John remarks as he holds open Sherlock's door. Sherlock smiles at him and sits down on the taped cushion.

"Let's go get some lunch. A sandwich? I'm starved." John blinks repeatedly for a moment at this admission.

"Yeah, sure." He closes Sherlock's door. He nods through the window. He moves away, and then closer, and then they are two seventeen-year-olds piloting a rustbucket towards a shop, and then nowhere.


End file.
